Tag: singaporean poetry

It’s not as much a tussle as much as it is a boxing match; the dodging and weaving like swerving into traffic.The reason people must inevitably bury themselves is the same as why full stops must be full. You know the steps by heart:here is an empty space to be filled. Here is a name erased. Here is another lie for you to be placed in. Graves, too, must be full. You are boxing yourselfinto a coffin. Your heart is full of mud.Here is an empty filling to be spaced out,crossed out, placed outside of the boxesand the self. Here is a list of instructionsfor the heart to erase. Here is the box thatgot the trafficker hung, here is the weave of an executioner’s mask, the judge’s wig, here is the tussle you will bind yourself in,the bullet you will learn to dodge.

—

Inspired by real life conversations. I’m back on my bullshit of trying to bang out drafts in a single 10 minute sitting. Old title: “Springboard”

it is the waking that is the hardest.
the first step in sleep deprivation:
you learn you miss dreaming
of holes, the spaces between lines,

the gap between the train and platform.
you dream of ways in which to die,
how the train brushes against your feet,
the space just big enough for your thigh.

there are other gaps you remember:
misspelled gpas, an empty desk
in class. visions of your friends,
long gone and passed, moss-grown,
flowers atop: a forlorn crown.
their faces eating the light.

in chasing the gap you lose yourself
in the coming and going, in finding
the joy of godless verse, the sound
when you spread her legs, or some
other sex line that marks you adult,
because penetration is the space
between childhood and modernity,
the answer to your wet dreams.

you tell that to your mother, spit
in her mouth, regurgitate the soap.
still dripping from last night, your
eyes clouded with the ocean.
before you leave, look in her eyes.
they are the ending credits of a film.
they are the same sea, the same salt.
you, the end of pages in a book.
you, the closed off dog-ear.

because you never hear of
hungry children, you
eat yourself whole, give in
to desire, the single moment
when your teeth eat into your lips
when your mouth burrows into your tongue.

this dream that eats away at your tail.

all this, to uncover
the space which your voice hides in:
the gap behind the kitchen cabinet.
that unknown place it goes
when you can’t find it, unwilling
to be coaxed out, like the last drop of wine
like a petulant child, forever, forever.

I was the first, one of the first. But you know
first one’s a fool. Who’s gonna get in line?
First one to go, first one to fight the way.
We lived in the throat of death every day.

Where you’re criminal because of who you are.
“These people ain’t gonna do nothing for us.
You need to start your own army,” he said.
There we bowed our heads. Broke our bread

that night. We shook our hands, then conquer
and divided what used to be home. Hit ‘em
while they watched. I’m tired of explaining,
‘where’d your love go?’ Man, this shit is draining.

This concrete don’t have any love for us,
for nothing, whatever it’s worth. Nothing.
That was my childhood. I was angry for years.
Angry, very angry…

II.

They say you got the right to be mad
but you gotta let it go. Look what remains:
pour your ashes where they claimed my name.
Where I changed. But ‘a pity if I stayed the same?’
That’s my battle cry. Gotta hit ‘em when they watch.
But what you gonna do when they saw all your moves
and practiced ‘em daily? Protect your neck, or give
invitations? People, sitting around pointing fingers.
I tried to drink it away, put one in the air like
cranes in the sky. But I bet on it, you’ll all
still be here when the lights come out,
still looking for temporary nothings.
Still looking for nothing.
They don’t understand
you got the right to be mad.
But when you carry it alone, you find it
only getting in the way. You gotta let it go.
Fall in your ways. Let it crumble. Dance it away.
So I took that anger and put it into my music, hoping
my son will bang this song so loud that he almost makes
his walls fall down, cause momma wants to make him proud –
oh, to be us, facing the world.

III.

The streets say you’re a king;
the world says you’re a failure
and your mother is a queen.
But you know that a king is only a man
with flesh and bones: he bleeds just like you do.
Now, we come here as slaves,
but we going out as royalty, knowing
these people done paved they way.
He asked, “Where does that leave you?
Where’s the peace? Do you belong?”
I said, “in you, in you.” My pride:
don’t touch it. The glory’s all mine.

—
spwm18 day 2

Solange is the younger sister of Beyonce. She used to be a backup dancer for Destiny’s Child. Even though she is also an accomplished singer, not enough people knew or talked about her until very recently.

This whole poem is comprised of nothing but lines taken ad-verbatim from her album, “A Seat at the Table”. I rearranged them to capture the main themes of the album plus present a narrative. I really loved this album and I hope that if you didn’t like my poem, you’d still give the album a chance.